


home is where the heart is

by joshsassceschi



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Gen, The Styles Triplets, literally just fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-12
Updated: 2014-01-12
Packaged: 2018-01-08 12:21:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1132602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/joshsassceschi/pseuds/joshsassceschi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, it sucks being an identical triplet. </p>
<p>(Or, the one where Marcel doesn't want to 'out' himself as a Styles triplet).</p>
            </blockquote>





	home is where the heart is

**Author's Note:**

> Ridiculously self-indulgent Styles triplet fluff.

Sometimes, it sucks being an identical triplet.

Marcel’s the third of three, born ten minutes after Edward and twenty-three after Harry - although, as Edward’s always quick to point out, in their childhood days, their mother had taken to dressing them in identical outfits, so she used to mix them up all the time. Marcel could be Harry, for all they know, and Harry could be Edward.

(“Don’t be stupid,” Harry had scoffed. “Mum can tell us apart.”

“Yeah,  _now_ ,” Edward had said, rolling his eyes and looking pointedly at the ink covering his arms. “Not when we were kids.”

“Shut up,” Harry had replied, chucking a book at Marcel to try and get him interested in the conversation. “I don’t want to think about the fact that my name could be  _Marcel_.”)

Nowadays, though, the three look completely different to the three smiling, laughing kids in the photos. They’ve grown up in different ways, with Harry being the quirky half-hipster type with beanies and those ridiculous sunglasses that Edward’s constantly teasing him for, Edward being the punk kid with tattoos and piercings, and Marcel the nerd with gelled hair and big glasses and argyle jumpers.

Harry and Edward are the popular kids, the kids everyone wants to be or have, and at school they’re just known as twins. Harry and Edward, Edward and Harry. Nobody knows about Marcel, the loser kid who gets beaten up more often than not, clings to his books and folders like they’ll shield him from the punches and kicks and sneers and jeers. Nobody would guess for a  _second_  that they’re triplets.

It’s not that Harry and Edward want it to be that way, though. They keep trying to force Marcel to spend time with them at school, to ‘come out as our triplet, come  _on_ , it’s no fun being two’, as Harry puts it. Personally, Marcel thinks they’re perfectly alright being two and that he just holds them back, and he refuses to out himself as the third Styles brother in the school. Nobody notices him unless they’re throwing punches anyway, so it’s okay.

(It’s not really okay. Harry and Edward don’t know. Marcel doesn’t want to think about what they’d do to the guys who beat him up if they did.)

“Hey, Marcel,” Harry says far too casually, snapping Marcel out of his daydream and back to reality, where the book about Joan of Arc is going unread. “You done your Maths?” Marcel sighs.

“I’d prefer if you asked me straight out,” he says, but he nods his head towards the desk anyway. Harry grins at him, rolling over Edward’s bed and pulling Marcel’s drawer open with far too much force, causing Marcel to wince.

“Don’t do that,” Marcel says.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Harry says distractedly, rifling through Marcel’s neatly ordered sheets and books. “Where the fuck did you hide this thing, man?”

“Oh, hang on,” Marcel says, frowning. “I think Edward took it earlier.” Harry swears under his breath, slamming the drawer shut again.

“I’ll fucking kill him,” he says. “I  _told_  him it was my turn to copy first. Where is he, anyway?” Marcel shrugs.

“Park?” he offers. “They opened that new skating area, didn’t they?” Harry rolls his eyes.

“Such a punk.”

“He’s your brother.”

“He’s yours too.”

“I know.” Harry rolls back onto Edward’s bed and sighs, putting his hands behind his head and staring at the wall in front of him. Marcel thinks it might be the end of the conversation, although something tells him it isn’t, but he prays Harry doesn’t push it and turns back to his book.

“Are you ashamed of us?” Harry blurts after a minute. Marcel blinks. Harry’s never been good at keeping quiet.

“No?” Marcel says, phrasing it as a question, because why on  _Earth_  would he be ashamed of Harry and Edward? They’re the most popular kids in school, and they’re not bigoted about it. They’re funny and genuine and two of the most caring people he’s ever come across, so why would he be ashamed?

“Then why won’t you let us tell people we have a triplet?”

“Because I’m a loser,” Marcel says quietly, picking at a loose thread in his jumper. He needs to sew the hem up again. “And I don’t want the attention.”

“You’re not a loser, come on,” Harry says, eyes straying from the wall to meet Marcel’s. Sometimes, Marcel hates being an identical triplet, because it means looking into Harry or Edward’s sad, heavy eyes is like looking into his own in a mirror. And Marcel tries to avoid doing that, because he hates the way he looks. He just can’t bring himself to care enough to change it. He’ll only get teased more, anyway.

“I am,” Marcel says. He doesn’t care anymore. The word doesn’t sting like it used to.

“You’re not,” Harry sighs. “You’re my brother, Marcel, and I love you.  _We_ love you. It’s not right it just being me and Edward. We’re not twins, we’re triplets. We’re all in this together.”

“Are you quoting High School Musical?” Marcel asks suspiciously. Harry’s lips quirk up in a half-smile.

“Inadvertently,” he claims, and Marcel doesn’t believe him for one  _microsecond_. “But really. Is it because I dress like a hipster? Or because Edward’s got tattoos and a lip ring and stuff? Because he’ll totally get them lasered off and take it out if you want him to.”

“No! Harry, I- no! Honestly, I’m not ashamed of you and Edward at all,” Marcel says. “I just- I prefer studying over socialising.”

“You socialise with us,” Harry says pointedly.

“We share a room,” Marcel points out. “I  _have_  to.”

“But you enjoy it.”

“You’re my brothers.”

“Oh, shut up, humour me and tell me you enjoy it,” Harry says, eyes twinkling. Marcel rolls his eyes, pretends it’s a huge deal and huffs as he slams his book shut, but indulges Harry nonetheless.

“I enjoy it,” he says obediently.

“A little less robotic next time and you’ll fool me,” Harry says, leaning back against Edward’s pillows.

“Hey!” Edward says, slamming the door open and walking in, flicking a stray curl out of his eyes. “That’s my bed.”

“And I’m sitting on it,” Harry says. “Who’s next in this fascinating game of State The Obvious?”

“Oh, hilarious,” Edward says, taking his beanie off and shaking his hair out into its naturally curly state. “No wonder me and Marcel are so unfunny. You got all the wit.”

“I pride myself on it,” Harry tells him, but rolls off his bed when Edward glares at him and chucks his skateboard in the corner. “I was just asking Marcel why he doesn’t want us to come out as triplets.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Edward says.

“No,  _Marcel_ says it like it’s a bad thing,” Harry says, and two mirrors of Marcel’s own eyes turn to him, all warm and brown and wide and half-accusing. 

“Hey, c’mon,” Edward says softly. “You’re not ashamed of us, are you?”

“Why does everyone think I’m ashamed of you?” Marcel says, exasperated.

“Because you won’t out yourself as our brother!” Harry says. Edward turns and fixes him with a steely glare, and he holds his hands up in defence. “Woah, calm it.”

“Come on, Marcel,” Edward says. “It’ll be fun. The three of us, yeah?”

“No!” Marcel says. “I don’t want attention.”

“Then we’ll make sure you don’t have any,” Edward says. “Marcel, it’s no  _fun_  having to pretend we don’t know you when we see you in the corridor. It’s stupid and it’s dumb and I want to hug you every time I see you clutch that stupid Maths book to your chest.”

“It’s not stupid,” Marcel mumbles.

“ _You’re_  stupid,” Harry says, but the words are more affectionate than anything else.

“Yeah, because you don’t wanna be our brother,” Edward says, pouting, but his eyes are twinkling.

“I hate you,” Marcel says.

“You don’t,” Edward says, a smirk playing on his lips. “Come on, let’s watch porn or something.”

“Sure,” Harry shrugs.

“Edward!” Marcel squeaks, turning bright red. Harry and Edward burst out laughing, and both of them jump up and run over to Marcel, smothering him in hugs that Marcel’s not entirely sure he deserves.  
-  
The worst thing about being genetically identical to the two most attractive, popular guys in the school is probably that Marcel sees everything he could be.

It’s not that he’s unhappy with who he is – far from it. He enjoys having his nose buried in books, likes the way numbers make sense and translate to give one final, correct solution, finds comfort in scribbling notes and remembering dates and exactly what part of the brain does what. He’s not  _ashamed_  of being a nerd, as such.

That being said, it does kind of suck when lunch rolls around every day and Marcel’s at a table in the back by himself, catching wistful glances from his brothers, who are sitting at the huge table in the middle packed with girls and boys laughing at all their jokes, from time to time. He tells himself that it doesn’t matter because he’s got his books and his notes and his numbers to occupy himself with, but sometimes it gets a little bit lonely.

Which is maybe why he clings to Harry and Edward when they’re at home. Sometimes, he’ll just pad up to Harry’s bed and curl up next to him without any explanation, and Harry will put his arm around Marcel and then Edward will come over and hug him too, and he’ll be cocooned between the two of them. They make him feel safe, and he loves them more than his language allows him to express.

But at school, it’s a different matter.

They only share one lesson as a three, which is English with Mrs Walker. Marcel takes care to sit as far away from Edward and Harry as he can, makes sure not a single curl hasn’t been gelled back on any day he has English, keeps his eyes down so nobody can see the green eyes that are exactly the same hue as Harry and Edward’s blinking owlishly behind huge glasses.

(Harry and Edward had taken to wearing contacts long ago.)

“Good morning!” Mrs Walker says cheerfully, bustling into the classroom. Marcel likes Mrs Walker; she’s the only teacher he can actually handle and speak to like she’s a normal human being.

“Mornin’,” a few half-arsed voices reply as she sets her things down on the desk.

“Well, today I thought we’d start on a project,” she says, and the entire class groans, save about three people. Even Marcel lets out a slightly exasperated sigh. He  _hates_  projects, because they’re always a group effort and he hates groups. “Alright, as I can tell you’re excited for it, why don’t we start immediately? It’s based on our poetry unit, and you’ll be writing and performing a poem from Moon on the Tides – I heard that, James – and you’ll be in groups of threes. Before everybody starts moving, I’ve already sorted you into groups.” The eager eye contact between friends is broken with a chorus of more groans, and a few whispers of  _fuck her, bet I’ll end up with Marcel or Joshua._ Marcel’s grown good at ignoring those comments.

“It’s alphabetical,” Mrs Walker says, and Marcel groans the loudest this time, because that means he’ll be paired with the two thickest people in the class, who happen to be below him in the register.

“So, Jess, Amy and Chris, you’re a group. Kyle, Joshua and Phoebe, you’re another.” Mrs Walker’s voice reads on and Marcel tunes out, mentally planning excuses to get out of seeing either of the two other boys. He’ll do the project entirely alone, if that’s what it takes.

“Harry, Edward and Marcel.”

Marcel blinks.

_What?_

“Oh,  _shit_ , dudes!” an ignorant twat called Tyler yells over at Harry and Edward. “Sucks to be you!”

“Why?” Edward says, and it’s too barbed for Marcel’s liking. What if Tyler assumes something?

(“You’re so paranoid,” Harry tuts later, when Marcel’s telling Edward off.

“It’s called  _sensibility_ ,” Marcel corrects.

“Exactly. It’s without the ‘sense’,” Harry mutters, and Marcel’s half-doubting that it’s a strange reference to an Austen novel but ruffles Harry’s hair anyway.

“You listened in English,” he says, not bothering to hide the pride and surprise in his voice.

“Piss off,” Harry says, ducking out of Marcel’s touch but moving back only seconds later, because he loves having his hair played with, and both of them know it.)

“’Cause it’s  _Marcel_ , dude,” Tyler says, still laughing, clearly not hearing the cold tone of Edward’s voice. Harry puts a hand on his arm, seeing the stricken look on Marcel’s face, and whispers a quick  _leave it_  to him as Mrs Walker carries on reading through the list of names.

“Okay,” she says, once she’s finished. “I want you to get into your threes and start planning.”

Marcel doesn’t move.

“Marcel,” he hears Edward call. “Come on, there’s two of us over here.” Marcel bites back the response on his tongue and keeps silent. No. He’s switching groups.

“Marcel, c’mon,” Harry says, raising his voice as the voices of all the other students combined start to get a little louder in their groups. “’S only fair.”

“You talk to him like you  _know_  him,” Tyler scoffs.

“Better him than you,” Harry replies, and Tyler’s mouth opens, presumably to reply, but no words come out.

Good.  
-  
It’s been three weeks since that day, and everything’s been normal since then. Marcel’s not expecting anything to change anyday soon, so it’s a surprise when he walks into his English lesson and sees Mrs Walker’s gone, replaced with a beaming young woman who introduces herself as Miss Whittaker, and announces that Mrs Walker’s had to take some immediate leave on compassionate terms. Marcel hopes Mrs Walker’s okay.

“So, let’s start with the register!” Miss Whittaker says brightly, clapping her hands together. “Apologies if I get your name wrong.” Marcel slinks down in his seat, waiting for the inevitable  _do you want me to call you Mark?_  that’s going to slip from her lips any moment soon.

“Harry,” she calls.

“Here.”

“Edward.”

“Here.”

“Marcel.”

“Here.” She frowns down at the register.

“Hey, you all have the same last name,” she says, giggling. “Isn’t that funny?” Marcel doesn’t know what to say to that, and neither do Harry and Edward, apparently, because they’re all silent. Miss Whittaker frowns, not looking up from her register, and from where he’s sitting Marcel can see her eyes scan the name three times –  _Styles, Styles, Styles_. “Are you triplets?” she asks, looking up and probably expecting to find the three of them sat together, not two together and one across the room.

“No,” Marcel says, but it’s fast, too fast, and he finds himself blushing as all eyes on the class fall on him. The loser kid in the corner that nobody’s ever noticed before.

“Harry? Edward?”

“C’mon, Marcel,” Edward says softly.

"We're not related," Marcel says insistently, gritting the words out and not looking up from his desk. "N-no." He curses himself for stuttering on the word, because _fuck_ does that make it obvious that they words rolling off his tongue are a lie. 

"Marcel."

Harry's voice sounds a mixture of broken, hurt and authorative, and it makes Marcel raise his head to make eye contact on instinct, because he hates when his brothers are upset. It's a mistake; once his eyes are locked on Harry's, he can't look away. 

_Please_. Harry's eyes are pleading. 

_No._ Marcel's are unrelenting. 

_Please. I love you._

The soft edge to Harry's eyes, the downturned lips,  _that's_ what makes Marcel break eye contact, makes him break all he's built up in so many years in just one tiny movement. 

“Yeah, we’re triplets," he says quietly.

A smattering of murmurs breaks out in the classroom, and just from where he’s sitting Marcel can hear things like  _what, that loser?_ and  _God, he didn’t get the good-looking genes, did he?_  It seems like Edward and Harry can hear some of them too, because Harry leans back to look over Edward’s shoulder at a girl called Jennifer sitting in the middle of the classroom and gaping at first Harry and Edward and then Marcel.

“We’re identical, thanks,” he says coldly. “You got a problem with Marcel, you got a problem with me and Edward too. Anyone else want to have a go?” The class falls silent.

“Well,” Miss Whittaker says, sensing the tension in the room and probably the way that Marcel wants to curl up and die right then and there. “Um. Poetry, I guess.”  
-  
Marcel tries to get up and leave as soon as the lesson’s over, but people are swarming around his desk before he can even put his pencilcase away.

“You’re  _triplets?_ ” some blonde girl says, eyes wide in a completely false way. She’s twirling a strand of hair around her finger, and it’s painfully obvious that she’s trying to get in with Marcel because she wants to get with one of the other two. Shame all three of them are gay.

“Yeah,” Marcel mumbles.

“That’s like,  _so_   _cool_ ,” some stoner kid that Marcel thinks is called Mike says. “Triplets. Woah, dude.”

“Yeah,” Marcel repeats, because he’s stupid and scared and doesn’t know how to act around people.

“So, like,” the blonde girl says. “You were born together?”

“Uh, yeah?” Marcel says. “That’s the definition of a triplet.” He doesn’t think he’s being funny, but two girls in the swarm around his table titter anyway. Huh. Weird.

“You grew up together as well?” the blonde girl asks. Marcel has to resist the urge to roll his eyes.

“Um, yes,” he says.

“Are you close?” Marcel doesn’t know what to say to that. He doesn’t know how to put it into words, because yeah, of course they’re close, but it’s understandably so. They shared a womb together and they’re all perfect replicas of each other; they’re as close as people can get. It’s like three people making up one entity.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “We’re close.”

“Wait, so if you’re identical, do you have curly hair under all that gel?” Mike’s friend says. Marcel nods warily. 

“I don’t like it,” he says.

“Harry and Edward are hot,” Mike’s friend says. “I reckon if you let the curls loose you’d be hot too.”

“Hey,” a sharp voice says from behind them, and the group turns around to see Edward making a beeline for Marcel. “We’re identical. You think we’re hot, you think he’s hot. That’s how it works.” His eyes are fierce and his jaw is set and quite frankly, if Marcel hadn’t held this boy whilst he sobbed and held his hair back when he was being sick after a night out and grown up with him, he’d be terrified too.

“Sorry,” Mike’s friend squeaks, squirming his way out of the group circle. Harry’s caught up with Edward now, and the two of them are standing in the middle of the ring of people around Marcel’s table, Harry glaring at each and every person in turn and Edward with his arms crossed.

“Who else wants to say anything about Marcel?” Edward says tetchily, and one by one the group disperses, the blonde girl winking at Harry over her shoulder. Harry winks back, then turns to Marcel and Edward with a pained expression on his face.

“I told you not to,” Marcel says quietly, picking at a splinter of wood sticking up from his desk. “I knew this would happen.”

“I’m sorry,” Edward sighs. “It’s been so long, though, Marcel. You didn’t think we could have the same surname and pretend not to be related forever.” Marcel doesn’t say anything, because he kind of  _did_  think that, but whatever.

“We’re going to our lockers now,” Harry says. “You coming?”

“I guess I have to,” Marcel says, “now that I’m a  _Styles triplet_.”

“You were always a Styles triplet,” Harry says, slinging an arm around his shoulder. “C’mon.”


End file.
